Deadly Harvest

by Michael Stanley

  “The witch doctor? But how do you know? Oh . . .” Samantha caught on quickly.

  Kubu nodded. “He was the informant. That’s why I couldn’t tell you. He insisted that no one else was to know unless he gave permission. It’s too late for that now, it doesn’t really matter anymore, and you have a right to know. But keep it to yourself.”

  Samantha thought about it. “I thought he was ill; that’s why he was retiring.”

  Kubu nodded. “Yes, he had emphysema, but had years to go. It was the witch doctor’s curse that killed him.”

  Samantha hesitated. “Actually, he did it to himself. Because he believed he would die, he did. It was all in his head.”

  Kubu shrugged. “You’re always looking for a rational explanation, Samantha. And maybe you’re right. But either way, I think it’s murder like all the others.”

  Samantha let it go. “What do we do now?”

  “Now,” he said, “we find out who this witch doctor really is, and then we make him pay for his crimes. We’re going to start with Molefe.”

  EVEN THOUGH HE’D KNOWN the commissioner for years, Mabaku still felt intimidated going into his office. After all, the man was the most powerful person in the police force.

  After the usual pleasantries, Mabaku cleared his throat.

  “Commissioner, I have a very delicate issue to raise. I can’t tell you how awkward I feel, particularly at this sad time. But I believe I could not wait, now that the deputy commissioner is dead.”

  The commissioner treated Mabaku with a taste of Mabaku’s own medicine. He glared and said nothing.

  For the next thirty minutes Mabaku outlined the various muti murders and the discovery in Marumo’s house of muti made with human remains. Mabaku ended with a detailed recounting of what the deputy commissioner had told him and their failed attempt to catch the witch doctor.

  “One other thing, Commissioner. Two days ago we received a credible report of the disappearance of an albino. Through a bit of luck and good detective work, we have a confession from a man who says he and another man abducted the albino and left him on the side of the road out of town. We checked the spot, and it looks likely that the marks in the sand are consistent with what the man claimed. We are in the process of checking phone records and have a warrant to search the second man’s car. That’s the vehicle that the first man says was used to transport the albino.” Mabaku paused and let the commissioner think it through.

  “Why are you telling me this now? It could have waited at least until after the deputy commissioner’s funeral.”

  “Commissioner, we think the albino’s life is in danger, if he’s still alive. So we need to move as quickly as possible. What I want is your permission to examine the phone and appointment records of the deputy commissioner and to interview his staff, in an attempt to find out who his informant was. That may be the quickest way to identify the witch doctor.”

  The commissioner stood up and walked to a side table and poured himself a glass of water. He gestured toward Mabaku, asking whether he’d like one. Mabaku shook his head.

  After the commissioner had sat down again, he spoke in a quiet voice. “Jacob, you and I have known each other for nearly twenty-­five years. I think we respect each other.”

  Mabaku nodded.

  “I think also that we both held Deputy Commissioner Gobey in the highest esteem.”

  Mabaku nodded again.

  “What you are asking me to do—­even the appearance of an investigation into his affairs—­will sully his reputation. I can’t do that to him or his family.”

  Mabaku’s shoulder slumped. He’d tried but lost.

  “But . . .”

  Mabaku looked up.

  “But, if you can guarantee that this investigation can be done extremely discreetly, that no one will be suspicious, then you should go ahead. We need to deal with these despicable murders. However, if it comes out that you are investigating the deputy commissioner, I will deny any knowledge of what you are doing.”

  He paused.

  “Understand?”

  Mabaku nodded firmly. “Thank you, Commissioner. I won’t let you down, I promise. Thank you.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  KUBU AND SAMANTHA SAT in the meeting room with the sketches of connections in the muti cases on the whiteboards around them. Zanele had just brought in her report on the forensics examination of Molefe’s possessions, and it was disappointingly thin.

  “Well,” said Kubu after he’d scanned it, “the best news is the piece of albino hair. That will be hard to explain away.”

  Zanele nodded. “Microscopic examination is enough to prove it’s a black-­race human albino hair, but the trouble is it’s just a fragment. It doesn’t include the follicle. I’m not sure if we’ll be able to do a DNA test against the samples I collected from Owido’s room at the boardinghouse.”

  “Nothing else in the car trunk? Owido was supposed to have been in there for a while.”

  Zanele looked pained. “Molefe did a good job. It was vacuumed and the carpets recently washed. Nothing we could pick up on his clothes, either. Of course, we might be able to link something else to the scene where they attacked him, or to where they left him. I’ve taken some soil samples and so on. But it’s a long shot.”

  Samantha held up the photographs they’d taken of tire treads at the place where Owido had supposedly been dumped. “The treads match those of Molefe’s car.”

  “Yes, and probably several thousand other cars,” Kubu grumbled. “It’s going to be hard to hold Molefe on what we have now. His lawyer is making a big production about the whole thing being a setup.”

  “But how does he explain Demene’s confession?” Samantha asked.

  “He claims that Demene was badgered into making it, and it won’t stand up in court if he changes his mind. And if Demene sticks to his story, then he’ll just say Demene is making it up to protect the witch doctor—­probably out of fear. And he’s implicating Molefe just because they were together at the shebeen. It’s Demene’s word against Molefe’s. And probably a judge will find Molefe the more credible of the two. Our whole case hangs on one albino hair. Now, if we can match that to Owido, it’s a different story.”

  “I’ll get to it right away,” said Zanele, already on her feet.

  Kubu turned his attention to Molefe’s phone records. “Anything in this lot?” he asked Samantha.

  “There are dozens of numbers, and it will take time to check them all. But I concentrated on those around the fifth of May. There are several to Demene—­calls and text messages—­but nothing that would shake Molefe’s story.” She became more enthusiastic. “But he did send a text message at nine-­twenty-­one p.m. on the fifth. That seems to be the best lead. It reads ‘Next half hour.’ ”

  Kubu nodded. “That would fit with the timing of when they dropped off the albino. Who was the message to?”

  Samantha checked her note. “It’s to a man called Kopano Rampa. It’s his personal phone number.”

  “Kopano Rampa?” Kubu looked at Samantha with his mouth open.

  “Yes. Do you know who he is?”

  Kubu nodded slowly. “I certainly do. He’s an undertaker.” He thought for a moment, then slapped his forehead. “Samantha, the missing bodies! Who would be in a better position to make bodies disappear than an undertaker? He would have access to the cemetery to dig an extra grave. Or even bury them at the bottom of a grave he’s dug for someone else. That could be why we’ve found no traces of any of the missing girls.”

  Samantha checked her notes. “He doesn’t live far from the shebeen with the computer. Kubu, it could be him. And he’d have access to plenty of other body parts, too. He’d only have to abduct ­people when he wanted them alive.” She felt a little sick at the thought of it all.

  Kubu recalled Gobey’s description and tried to visualiz
e the undertaker wearing the witch doctor outfit. His physique, age, and voice might just fit. Kubu was sure the late deputy commissioner would have been able to tell at once, but they’d have to do the best they could without him.

  “Let’s get his business address. I think we should pay Rra Rampa a visit.”

  RAMPA UNDERTAKERS—­FUNERALS OF DISTINCTION, was a large showroom just off the Broadhurst Mall. The inside was in somber grays, with a selection of “Caskets of Distinction” displayed on low pedestals. Polished quality wood, elegant carving, silver handles. Kubu shuddered to think what they would cost. But few of Rra Rampa’s clients would be lowered into the earth in one of these; the rough pinewood coffin in which he’d buried Nono’s sister would be the norm. Kubu had heard that the carpenters couldn’t keep up with the demand for those.

  A young man in a charcoal suit came to greet them, his face as somber as the surroundings. The fact that they’d come to see his boss and had no one to bury seemed to cheer him not at all. He led them to a comfortable office off the main showroom. There they found Rampa at his desk.

  “Assistant Superintendent! I trust it’s not a close family member who has passed on? Of course I will help in every way. And we’ll certainly be able to come to a satisfactory arrangement as far as the cost is concerned. Please sit down, please sit down.”

  “Rra Rampa, I’m glad to tell you that this is a police visit, not the result of bereavement. This is Detective Khama, also of the CID. We’re hoping you’ll be able to help us with a case we’re investigating.” Both detectives passed Rampa their identification. He glanced at them and handed them back.

  “I don’t quite understand,” he said.

  Kubu opened his notebook. “Rra Rampa, do you know a man called Sunday Molefe?”

  The undertaker looked around the room as though he expected to find Molefe hiding somewhere. “Molefe? I don’t think so. But we have so many clients these days—­too many really—­that it’s possible I’ve forgotten.” If Kubu had hoped for shock to be displayed on Rampa’s face, he was disappointed. But he plowed on.

  “Well, it seems that he knows you.”

  “Does he say so? In what context?”

  “He contacted you about ten days ago. Perhaps you recall that? It was on Saturday, the fifth of May, at around half past nine.”

  The undertaker shook his head firmly. “I don’t give clients my private cell phone number. And I’m an early riser; I don’t take calls that late.”

  Kubu thought for a moment. Then he said, “This was a text message.”

  Rampa shook his head again.

  “Would you mind if I looked at your phone?”

  “You won’t take it away?” Rampa looked uncomfortable, but after a few moments’ hesitation, he dug in his pants pocket and handed Kubu a phone. He passed it to Samantha.

  Turning back to the undertaker, Kubu said, “The text message read: ‘Next half hour.’ Does that ring a bell?”

  Rampa shook his head again. “Someone was trying to set up an appointment at ten on a Saturday night? It makes no sense. Are you sure you have the correct phone number?”

  Kubu took out his own phone and typed in the number he’d written in his notebook. After a few seconds Rampa’s phone started to play “Amazing Grace.” Kubu gave a wry smile and cut off the call. Samantha passed Rampa’s phone back to him.

  “Look, Assistant Superintendent, we all get spam messages or messages sent to the wrong number from time to time. It happens. Now, how does Rra Molefe claim to know me? If you give me some context, maybe I can help you.”

  Kubu stared at Rampa, trying to strip off the formal dark suit and tie and replace them with a leopard skin and baboon mask. Somehow it seemed comical. But if Rampa was indeed the “invisible” witch doctor, then Kubu was looking at an extremely dangerous and vicious man.

  “Do you mind telling us where you were on the night of Saturday, the fifth of May?”

  Rampa thought for a few moments. “I was at home. I had supper, watched some television. Then I went to bed at around ten.”

  “Do you live alone?”

  “I do. My wife died about three and a half years ago. And yes, I arranged the funeral. ­People always ask. What is supposed to have happened on that night?”

  “An albino man was abducted and, we believe, delivered to a witch doctor to be used for muti.”

  “And you think I was involved?” Rampa sounded angry now, and somehow the image of the baboon mask seemed a better fit.

  “I didn’t suggest that. But the text message was probably connected to it.”

  Rampa hesitated. “It’s possible I got the message. If I don’t recognize the sender, I often delete the message without reading it. That must’ve been what happened.”

  Kubu nodded. “Probably,” he said. He rose, thanked the undertaker for his time, and left with Samantha.

  ON THE WAY OUT, Kubu thanked the receptionist and picked up a ­couple of copies of a flyer advertising Rampa Undertakers and containing a head-­and-­shoulders picture of Rampa in a jacket and tie. He handed one to Samantha, and when they got to the street he asked her what she’d made of the interview.

  “There was no text message on Rampa’s phone, and I quickly checked his contacts for Molefe’s number, but it wasn’t there, either. Still, I don’t think he’s telling the truth. He seemed uncomfortable when you mentioned Molefe, although he hid it pretty well.”

  Kubu nodded. “I agree with you. And he immediately thought the call was to his cell phone at nine-­thirty at night—­I didn’t say that—­when a business call at nine-­thirty in the morning was more likely.”

  “Of course!” Samantha had missed that. “Another thing, if Molefe did send the text message to the wrong person, why isn’t Owido still at the place where they left him?”

  Kubu nodded again. “Of course, it’s possible Owido got free eventually and was so scared that he fled, leaving all his possessions behind. That’s credible, and I hope for his sake that’s what happened. But I don’t believe it. I think he’s buried somewhere in an unmarked grave or maybe in someone else’s grave. Certainly not a funeral of distinction.”

  FORTY-SIX

  ON HER WAY HOME, Samantha paid another visit to the Welcome Bar No. 2. This time the place was buzzing with ­people having an after-­work drink. A noisy group seemed to be set on breaking the foosball machine with their excessively enthusiastic playing and, from time to time, there was a yell of triumph or disgust. The manager was busy helping the bartender, but he recognized her as she reached the bar and brought her a Coke.

  “Everyone’s happy with the machine you loaned us,” he said, indicating the group around the computer. “I’ve told them the other one is in for repair. One guy was worried about some stuff he’d stored on it. I told him he was an idiot to leave anything on a public machine, but his data would probably be okay. Is that right?”

  Samantha nodded, but the man had already rushed off to pour more beers. She’d almost finished the Coke by the time he returned.

  “Sorry, busy here this evening. But that’s good, isn’t it? Did you have some more questions?”

  Samantha showed him one of the flyers Kubu had picked up at Rampa’s funeral parlor. She’d carefully folded the paper so that only the picture of Rampa in his formal suit was visible. “Does this man ever come in here for a drink?”

  The manager looked at the picture carefully, then shook his head. “Ron! Come over here a minute.”

  The bartender finished taking money for two cane spirits, then hurried over, looking harassed. “What?”

  Samantha showed him the picture, and he nodded. “Yes, he comes in occasionally. He’s that undertaker chap. I think he visits the clinic up the road sometimes to collect bodies, you know? Stops for a drink on the way.”

  “Do you remember when he last came in?”

  The man sh
ook his head. “He only comes very occasionally. Maybe a ­couple of weeks ago?” Someone thumped his empty glass on the bar and waved. “Do you think I remember who comes in and when with this lot?”

  “Does he ever use the computer?”

  “Can’t recall. Is that all?” Samantha nodded, and the man hurried off to refill the thirsty glasses.

  Samantha finished her Coke, thanked the manager, and left. So Rampa had the opportunity to pick up the Hushmail messages that had been sent to the witch doctor. And the pay phone the witch doctor had used was just down the road. Samantha felt they might be getting close to tying up the case.

  ON HIS WAY HOME, Kubu stopped at Debonairs Pizza and collected two large quattro stagionis. He would polish off one by himself, and Joy and the girls would eat the other. No doubt Ilia would get a few crusts also. Joy was making a salad to go with it, and Kubu decided they would wash the food down with an inexpensive but acceptable dry red he’d discovered. The aromas of herbs and warm cheese filled his Land Rover, making his mouth water as he drove home.

  I always think of them as Joy and the girls now, he mused. My family. What happens if they find Nono a permanent home? We’ll all miss her, and Tumi will be devastated. My mother already loves Nono, and my father thinks she’s our daughter. I must speak to Joy about her.

  When he opened the gate, Kubu managed to finesse Ilia’s overenthusiastic welcome at the same time as keeping her away from the pizzas. But at the house, with both girls demanding his attention and the fox terrier jumping up at him, he nearly dropped the boxes. Joy grabbed them, laughing as Kubu collapsed into an easy chair under a pile of children and dog.

  “I’ll put the pizzas on a plate and get the wine,” Joy said. “The salad is ready. Come to the table as soon as you can before the pizzas get cold. And you girls must wash your hands nicely first. Especially with Ilia licking everything.” Tumi and Nono nodded and then returned their attention to Kubu.

  “Daddy,” said Tumi. “I found a chameleon today. My friend said it was unlucky, but mommy says it’s very lucky. Mommy put him in a box so I could show you. She says then we must let him go so he can get food.” A thought struck her. “Maybe he’ll eat pizza?”